


An Angel's Scars Are As Beautiful As Their Wing's

by sunfirestrike



Category: Supernatural
Genre: F/M, Reader-Insert, Self-Harm, please do not read if you are bothered by self harm
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-18
Updated: 2016-03-18
Packaged: 2018-05-27 10:20:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,320
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6280651
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunfirestrike/pseuds/sunfirestrike
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Request: Could you write an imagine where Dean Winchester sees the reader self harming or sees her scars, and gets super distressed, and starts crying and accidentally blurts out that he loves her, and kisses her scars and its fluffy?</p>
            </blockquote>





	An Angel's Scars Are As Beautiful As Their Wing's

You leaned against the cool blue tile bathroom wall, your knees pulled up to your chest, and you head resting in between them, arms wrapped around yourself tightly in an effort to keep yourself from falling apart. The shower making the air thick and foggy, and serving its purpose of hiding the sounds of crying. You covered your mouth with your hand as a sob threaten to escape. Your eyes, red rimmed and glassy were staring at the vanity, or more specifically, the razor blade on top of the slab of marble. You knew you shouldn’t be wanting to go back to cutting yourself, you were doing better, you were! But, then everything just started spiraling downwards, back down into the deep, lifeless, black void, that you never seem to truly crawl out of.

Wiping your tears away with the end of your long sleeve, that had been crumpled up in your hand, you reach up from your huddle position on the floor, you grab the razor in your shaking hand and begin to roll up your shirt sleeve. The scars on your arm were all different colors. Some were a faded white color, some were pink, and raw, but a few on your upper arm were a purple blueish color. They all showed how long you had been fighting this battle inside your head. These were the battle scars that come with the war you’re fighting, and this right now, may be losing the battle, but you knew, inside your soul you’d win the war.

But, for now your soldiers were dying and this is the price you pay losing. With a deep breath, and few salty tears racing down your face, the razor bites its way into your skin. It stings and it burns, but at least you can feel something, even if it’s hurting you. Blood drips down your arm, and splashes onto the floor. Two cuts later a small puddle the size of your fist has formed on the tile. The shower’s water has probably turned cold by now, but it gives you an excuse as to why you were in the bathroom for so long.

A knock at the door barely registers in your mind. The razor still nipping at your skin.

“(Y/N)?” Dean’s gruff voice goes in one ear and out the other, “You’ve been in there a long time. Are you alright?” After no response from you, Dean’s heart starts to speed up bit. His hand reaches for the doorknob, hoping you hadn’t locked it. He pushes the door open, and with a sharp intake of breath, his heart shatters like glass on concrete. His eyes almost can’t comprehend what he sees, you, crumpled on the floor, a razor in your hand with fresh blood dripping from it, several uniform cuts along your arm, red slowly flowing down your skin, and dozens of scars littering each arm. And, suddenly he understands why you never wear short sleeves even when it’s 100 degrees out, and he can see the sweat pooling at your forehead. He can hardly believe that someone so strong, someone, who he thought could take on the weight of the world and still be able to get out of bed in the morning. Someone who had seen all the evil in the world, and still be able to laugh at some joke or smile like nothing in the world cold bring the sun down, could be sitting here in front of him, staring at him with dead eyes that used to hold so much shine.

“(Y/N),” His voice is filled with desperation. You move your head to look at him, and see the tears falling from his eyes. You don’t know how to respond, you never planned for anyone especially him to find out. The last thing you need was for the man to love to think you were weak, and pitiful, that would only make things worse. You take a deep breath, and accept the fact that he knows. You slowly stand up and turn off the shower, and rinse off the razor in the sink watching the blood be swallowed by the drain. All the while Dean continues to stare at you, you weren’t ignoring him, you just didn’t know what to do, or say. You push past him and out the door, hoping he would just go away, or that you would fade from existence so you didn’t have to face him, and the pity in his green eyes. You sit down on your bed, turn on the lamp on your nightstand, and pull out bandages and disinfectant from its drawer. You start to unravel the roll on bandages when you feel a warm hand on your shoulder, you turn to him, his eyes are red, and pleading.

“Please,” His voice is just above a whisper, “let me.” With a deep sigh, you hand him the bandages, and he sits down next you on the bed. His hands are gently as he takes your arm in his grip, and he starts wrapping the gauze around it. He works in welcomed silence while fixing up you cuts, but you can tell the questions are brewing in his mind, the ones that people always ask when the find out you self harm, and quite frankly you’re tired of answering their insensitive questions.

“Before you ask, no, I don’t do this because I hate myself, I do this because it takes the pain away.” He seems surprised that you spoke first, but nods his head at what you said.

“I-I wasn’t going to ask…” He trails off, and you can tell he is trying to think of what to say next. “Ho-how long?” He chokes on the words, and they leave a bitter taste on his tongue. You sigh, racking your brain to try and think of when everything went to Hell.

“Long enough,” Is your answer. He reaches over and places his hand over yours, a gesture he often did when a hunt had gone bad, and you blamed yourself for not being quick or strong enough. Or when you just felt like shit. You had always thought of it as platonic, thinking he could never love you the way you loved him. You look up into his eyes, and see the anguish in his green gaze, he pulls you into a hug, and you bury your head into his neck, the smell of whiskey and leather surrounding you in a shield of comfort.

“Listen, I want you to know that I love you, that even when it doesn’t feel like it I do, at your worst I love, at my worst I love, at your best I love, I will always love you. Nothing could ever change that, okay?” You nod your head as tears fall from your eyes. “Good.”He gently turns your shoulders so that you’re facing him.

“And (Y/N), I want you to know that I’m glad I found out about this, I know you better because of it. And now, if you let me help, you won’t have to go through this alone.” He pulls you into a hug, his war arms comforting you. He doesn’t let go for a few minutes and when he does, it’s only to look into your eyes. Your heart is hammering in your chest at the intensity of his gaze. You hear him mutter something that sounds like “Oh, screw it.” before his lips crash onto yours. He is surprisingly gently, cupping your cheek with his hand, careful to avoid your bandaged upper arm. Your lips move against his, in a sweet, passionate kiss. You break away breathing hard, as the realization of what just happened comes over you.

“Dean, I-I never would have thought, I mean I didn’t-”

“That’s a good speechless, right?”

“A very good speechless.” You nod your head, before kissing him again.


End file.
